The Homeowner: The bachelor party

By Mike Prevatt

When I was younger, I used to be jealous of other kids who ran in cliques. Whether it was my Jewish friends or jock friends or stoner friends, they always seemed to have a group, a second family of sorts, to go to. I didn't have anything like that. I only later realized that I inadvertently never allowed one thing to define me. As a result, I've since made lots of friends from all sorts of different backgrounds. But I still sometimes find myself in the company of a group where I'm the outsider looking in. And this happened a few times during Dave's bachelor party last weekend.

Dave is my best guy friend. I've known homeboy since high school and I absolutely love him. Like me, he wasn't so much into cliques growing up. But he also was socially gifted enough to know how to assimilate himself into any group whenever the moment called for it. He's a rock star like that.

Now, I'm no stranger to bachelor parties. Yes, usually I'm the only homo in the party, and yes, I also go to the strip clubs. This has never been a problem for me, because, for one, I have a lot of straight friends, and two, I'm not threatened or repulsed by strip clubs. In fact, I've had more girls give me lap dances than I have dudes--and all the girl dances were better than the one I scored with the guy. Go figure.

Anyway, my fellow groomsmen decided to go the traditional route and planned a night of barhopping, clubbing and, of course, watching women disrobe. The participants would include Dave's closest friends, his sister's husband and his future brother-in-law--all heterosexual but me. This meant that for 10 hours, I'd probably have to endure talk about the Lakers, Dave Matthews and pussy.

So, around 6 p.m., the 12 of us got into our rented stretch limo--with a $400 puke fine should we get sloppy--already somewhat drunk. We first hit a hotel off the beach for some cocktails at its swanky lounge--though not so swanky that hookers didn't feel welcome. Then we were carted to the airport and its own posh watering hole, overlooking the city. Most of us knew each other from high school, so we reminisced about the old days. Slowly but surely, I was feeling less the odd man out.

It was barely 9 p.m., and I'd already had three drinks. At 135 pounds, this meant I was unquestionably drunk, and not pacing myself well. But the mini-binge proved useful 20 minutes later when our limo got rear-ended on the freeway. I don't remember everything about it, except that at one moment I was talking to Dave, sitting across from me, and the next, his shoe was planted on the side of my head and his face was in another guy's lap. This could only be funny while loaded on Ketel One.

This also initiated the homoerotic humor, which never fails to surface among sufficiently drunk straight guys. I couldn't keep count of all the oral sex jokes involving Dave's mid-collision faceplant, or the line about the limo being buttfucked, or all the "nice ass" remarks whenever we filed out of or into the limo. This would have been my opportunity to let my own gay one-liners fly, but despite my comfort with everyone, I kept them to a minimum, as I was still trying to be, y'know, one of the guys. Besides, drunken homoerotic jokes are taken in a different context when the guy delivering them is actually gay.

We eventually got to the nightclub, where almost all of us guys ended up dancing to cheesy Eurotrance. At around last call, we got back into the limo and headed over to the strip club--one that didn't serve alcohol because the women there go full-frontal.

Now, you'd think this would be the climax of our night. After all, almost all bachelor parties are just one inebriating lead-up to the naked chicks. But one by one, each of the guys admitted to me that this wasn't doing much for them. One guy said the girls weren't hot, another said they were hotter with their thongs kept on and another admitted the environment only made him want to go home to his girlfriend. Were we just going through the motions?

At least Dave was having fun. And I saw my first in-the-flesh vagina. I was surprised to discover that they look just like they do in Playboy--shaved and airbrushed. I have to say, I wasn't impressed. In fact, I felt like a poseur. I felt like everyone there knew it, too. Hell, our drink server drew a penis on my hand. I wondered if that was a tip-off to her stripper co-workers that they needn't bother propositioning me.

We got back to our friend's apartment about 4 a.m., and while everyone kept talking, I felt it was time to go home. Despite having a most excellent time, this gay boy had been a tourist long enough. Yet, on the way home, I realized everyone had let me know the whole night I was one of the gang. And that--more than the limo accident or seeing my first real live vagina--is what I'll always remember about Dave's bachelor party.

The Homeowner appears biweekly. Send your comments and nude pics (especially if you look like Joseph Gordon-Levitt) to oughtabeinporn@yahoo.com.